


lola

by yeoldaeya_writings



Category: Lolita (1962), Lolita (1997), Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 23:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoldaeya_writings/pseuds/yeoldaeya_writings





	lola

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I just want to get this through your head right now: ‘Lolita’ by Vladimir Nabokov is not a love story. It never has been, and it never will be.’

I stop, click my pen a few times, and then bite the tip. I think to myself, then resume my writing, ‘The fact that I have to tell most people that statement makes me lose whatever faith I ever had in humanity. Lolita is a story about how a horrible-’

“No no, that’s too nice of a description,” I whispered.

Scribbled.

‘-disgusting,’

“Hmm yeh, not even close,” I shook my head.

Crossed out.

‘-revolting,’

Ding ding ding! “Bingo.”

Underlined.

‘-a revolting, manipulative old man takes advantage of his twelve-year-old step-daughter’s pubescent body and naive mind. How could anyone even think of doing a fraction of the things that Humbert did to poor Dolores Haze? It makes me physically sick to think about it. To even talk about it. To be able to relate to it.’

‘I,’ I tapped my chest twice for emphasis, ‘was twelve-year-old Dolores Haze. I know what she went through, to a T, because he used that book as his own little sadistic how-to manual on me. I felt everything that had happened to her, play by play. I heard everything that Humbert had said to her before as if I read the book myself. It was a living hell for both me and Dolores Haze, but somehow I survived. I escaped his furious wrath, his manipulative ways, his more-than-inappropriate touch.’

I sigh and rub my arms to try to rid of the goosebumps slowly taking shape. I shake my head from the thoughts, the flashbacks, and push on through.

‘Sadly, Dolores Haze did not get her happy ending. She didn’t get her revenge on Humbert for all the despicable things that he did to her. But I did. And I do not regret any part of what I did to him, except the age that I finally did it at. I waited too long to take matters into my own hands, and I apologize to my younger self for that. Thankfully, present me is now safe from the monster I am defending myself against today. So to answer your question, your honor; no, I do not regret what I did to Mister Howard Rodney Johnson. For he knows what he did to both me and Isabella Hernandez. And forgive me your honor, but whatever may happen to him in the future, I hope,’

Scribbled.

‘I pray that he thinks about every single action that he has EVER done to me and I PRAY that he regrets every single decision that he makes to even think about crossing paths with me again, because maybe next time, I won’t be so nice. Thank you, your honor.’

I push back the notepad and pop my wrists.

“Are you done?” Officer Lee-Patel asked, not looking up from her papers.

I nodded and twisted my upper body, trying to relieve my hunched back, “I believe so.” I moved the notepad across her desk, trying not to move any of her steadily placed documents, “Take a look?”

“Alright,” she took the notepad and leaned back into her loveseat.

I nervously studied at her while she read my testimony and tried to pick out any alarming facial expressions that she could make. Should I have made it longer? Used better vocabulary? Asked the jury more rhetorical questions? Oh god, what was that face she just made? Wait, she chuckled, I think. Her face was kinda hard to make out in this dim lighting. I looked at the time blaring from her digital clock; 11:34 P.M, it read. My god, is it really only almost midnight? How am I so tired? Then again, I have been awake since, like, 8 A.M. this morning.

“Hm,” she finally made a noise, snapping me out of my runaway train of thought, “this is pretty good.”

“Really?” I smiled small, “Thanks.”

“Except,” she started, “you probably shouldn’t have put that last statement in there. The ‘maybe next time, I won’t be so nice’ line? It kinda sounds like a murderous threat that could possibly get you in trouble. It makes you sound like you’re the hunter, instead of the hunted,” she added emphasis on the last syllables of the words.

“Well, first of all, it’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” I flatly stated.

“Hm.” she hummed, amused by my demeanor, “Well, then you definitely shouldn’t put that line in there, because that could turn this whole case around.”

“Yeh, but, I was defending myself at the end of this whole crazy thing. Why should that last statement matter?”

“Because Alexa, no matter how you see it, the jury is going to hear that and they’re going to think that you,” she pointed at me, “are the aggressive one. Let’s take a look at the case here, shall we?” She gave me back the notepad and grabbed one of the folders on her desk. She flipped through a few documents then held up a piece of paper, “This is the picture that they keep using for you. Note how you look in this; messed up hair, running makeup, and, oh look, bloody bruised knuckles.”

I huffed and looked down at my knuckles. They’re less bruised than the picture, but they still sting whenever I think of that incident.

“And this,” she resumed, grabbing my attention again, “is the picture that they’re using for Mister Johnson. Now, note how he looks; a single bruise on his right eye, a bloody nose, scratch marks on his face, and less than perfect hair. And look at that pitiful face of his,” she mockingly coos at the last statement and makes a pouty face, as if she’s attending to a hurt toddler. She quickly straightens her face and raises an eyebrow, “See what I mean?”

I let out a frustrated groan, because, unfortunately, I do see what she means. She makes perfect sense; I do look like the hunter. But how can she not see what I mean? “Ok, fine, yes I see, I really do. But Officer Lee, I only say that last statement because I need the jury to understand what I mean. My knuckles are bruised because I was defending myself from him. He has scratch marks because that’s the only way I could get him off of me. My makeup is messed up because I was crying and sweating.”

“Does the jury know that?” She interrupted.

I thought quickly, not to lose my train of thought, “Well, no I don’t think so, but-”

“But what?”

“BUT,” I repeated severely, “I make that threat-” I pause, “-that promise because it’s true. I pray that whatever happens to him When He Does Go,” I annunciate my words by tapping my pointer finger on her desk to each syllable, “To Jail, that he thinks long and hard about every single decision that he has ever made to get him to where he is now. What made him think that it was a good idea to adopt me at the age of ten? What made him consider saying half of the things he said to me, hm? What made him-”

“Ok,” she held up a hand, “you’ve made your point, Alexa.” She got up and went to her mini fridge and got two mini bottles of water. She gives one to me, “Listen, I didn’t want to have to say this, but here it goes.”

She sat on the edge of her desk, facing me, and took a quick sip of water, signaling me to do the same. The water tastes cool against my warm, dry throat, reminding me I haven’t drunk any water in the past few hours.

“Alexa, what are you?”

I finish my mini water in a few gulps, “What am I?” I repeat her question, puzzled at the least. “What do you mean?”

“What are you, as in, your personal background.”

I look at her, puzzled, “Well, where do I begin?”

“Ok, uhm, let’s make a list, shall we?” She takes back the notepad, flips to a new page, and starts writing, “Alexa,” she says slowly as she writes out my name, and I hear two harsh lines being written on the paper, signaling she’s making a T-chart, “and Howard.”

I cringe as she says our names within close proximity of each other, even with a brief pause in the middle.

“Ok, let’s start with an easy question; how old are you?”

“I am 23 years old.”

“Twenty three… years… old,” she repeated as she wrote my answer, “Next, do you identify as a man or a woman?”

“A woman,” I answer plainly.

“Cis or trans?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

I answer regardless, “Cis.”

She nods and writes, “A cis… woman. Ok, now nationality. What country were you born in?”

“America.”

She silently writes that down, “Ethnicity?”

I slowly whine as I see where she’s going with this now, “Do we really have to do-”

“Ethnicity.” She states this time, rather than asking.

I sigh and answer, “Black,” defeatedly.

“Black or African American?” she adds, without missing a beat.

“Does that really matter?” I questioned with a slight annoyance in my voice.

She gives me a look as if to say, ‘You bet your sweet ass it does.’

I repeat myself, “Black.”

She echoes, “Black.” She writes it down, and asks, “Sexual orientation?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close my lips. ‘What is my sexual orientation?’ I ask myself, as I look down and mull on the question. I do find men nice to look at, don’t get me wrong. But based on my past, I simply cannot bring myself to date one. I know not ALL men are like him, or Jax, or any of the other past failed ‘relationships’ that I’ve had. But I simply cannot bring myself to get past the talking stage with men.

Women, however.

I think of Lauren and smile to myself. Her smile, her striking eyes, her beautiful laugh. Then I think of the turn of events between us and look down at my hands. I miss her fingers between mine.

“Alexa.” Officer Lee commands, noting myself that I haven’t answered the question yet.

“Hm? Oh sorry, uhm, bisexual… I guess? I mean, I find guys nice to look at but I’d rather date women, and-”

“We’ll just put questioning, or queer, for right now,” she wrote, taking the underlying thought out of my head. “Lastly, where do you live?”

“Off of Bethany Street and Crenshaw Lane,” I answered quickly, knowing what she was going to ask next.

“Mhm, in what city?”

“Marlow,” I answered quieter than the last response.

She wrote down the last response. “Now, let’s go over Mister Howard’s background.” She grabbed a sheet of paper and copied some information onto the notepad. After a minute or two, she was done. “Ready to hear what you’re up against?”

I sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time today, “Go ahead.”

She glanced at me and gave me half an apologetic look, and started, “You, a 23-year-old, queer black American,” she seemed to add emphasis on ‘American’ for some reason, “cis-woman, residing in Marlow, California-”

I smile to myself, hearing my description. I feel prideful? For some reason.

“-are going against a 51-year-old, straight white English-born-” she added emphasis on ‘English’, making me understand why she added emphasis on ‘American’, “cis-man, who is currently residing in Irvine, California.” She pauses to add emphasis, then continues, “Do you see, or hear, actually, what you are up against, Alexa?”

I nod slowly and play with my fingers, “Yes Officer Lee.”

“I just don’t think your last line will play well with this jury.” I can practically hear her roll her eyes, “How in the hell did they pick the LEAST diverse jury I have ever seen?” She whispers, to herself, I assume, even though it was kind of loud.

I let a strong blow of air slip out my mouth, signaling my agreement, “Yeh, three ladies total, and only one is a person of color.”

“Only ONE!” she repeats almost immediately, earning a chuckle from me. “The rest is a bunch of older, white people! What are the coincidences?!”

I groan loudly and look up at the ceiling, “Welcome to the question I ask myself daily, ‘What are the coincidences?’”

“I’m just saying,” She regains her serious manner, “that threat-”

I look at her.

“That promise, Alexa, will not go over well with this sort of jury. A young, black queer lady promising whatever actions to this older, white straight male? It’s not going to end well for this case OR you. I just wouldn’t advise saying it.” She pauses to let it sink in, which I start to notice is something that she does often. “Do you understand, Alexa?” She questions, with a rare softness in her voice.

I slant my lips to the side and nod, “I understand.”

“Good,” she simply states and gets back to her paperwork.

After a few seconds, I quietly ask, “Can I at least keep it on the paper just to keep me at ease?”

She quickly smirks at me, “Yes.”

I return her smirk, then take back the notepad.

My tummy growls, making me clutch it.

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

She looks at her clock; 12:06 A.M.

“I wonder what’s open at midnight?” she questions as she opens her phone, “What are you craving?”

“Please, Officer Lee, you’ve done so much already-”

“And I’m going to continue doing ‘so much’ until this is over,” she proclaims, not looking away from her screen.

I stayed quiet. Officer Lee was nice, but she sure had a stern way of showing it.

“Chinese or pizza?”


End file.
